


Helper of Mankind

by bleedcolor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Eventual Romance, I Don't Even Know, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Parental Lestrade, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, no genie lamps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:30:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever little hope the good days shored up, the worst days dashed away with all the force of a tsunami. The worst days sent him stumbling home with exhaustion and impotent anger spiking into a headache behind his eyes, at a loss to explain the evil at the core of humanity and desperate to fix something that could not be repaired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helper of Mankind

**Author's Note:**

> This is not betaed or brit-picked in anyway. The fact that it any way resembles a cohesive plotline in moderately grammatically correct English is an accident, I assure you.
> 
> Many thanks to [WonderWhovian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWhovian/pseuds/WonderWhovian), who made this happen. May she continue to kick my butt and make the rest of the story fall out in a timely manner.

He had known there would be bad days.  He hadn't become a copper with the wide-eyed naivete of most of his peers—he'd seen the long hours, the relentless bureaucracy, the utter _thanklessness_ of the job in the slump of his father's shoulders after a long day slogging through the paperwork some higher-up couldn't be bothered with.  His granddad's wild stories around the dinner table had taught him the danger, the risk.  In the tightness of the lines bracketing his mother's mouth, waiting up on a night because they didn't _know_ , he'd learned the fear of uncertainty, of never knowing if this call out would be the last.  He had stood by his father at enough gravesides, missed his presence at enough school games, seen the fights, the nights when one drink wasn't enough, to know there would be bad days.

He'd understood, even, that the bad days outnumbered the good.  It would be difficult not to know, he had breathed it in from the very beginning, much to his mum's despair.  Policing was as much a family business to him as being royal must be to the Queen.  He'd seen it from just about every side before he'd even taken his A-levels.  He thought he'd been prepared.  But it was impossible to prepare for the worst days.  The first time, a week and a half of eighteen hour work days, a handful of screaming rows with Liv, and the endless, exhausting pursuit of _just one more clue_ that had ended in the bloodbath of a vicious murder-suicide... The first time he had felt betrayed.  Surely, _surely_ , someone should have told him about _this_ : the total loss of faith in humanity, the pressing weight of guilt on his chest.  He'd known, of course, but he then again, he hadn't.  Not truly.

It might be that he'd expected to make a difference.  Pride goeth before a fall and all that.  He'd prided himself on knowing the job and he'd expected that to change something.  He really had, even if it had been some small change in the world around him, some tiny betterment.  He had wanted to fight for the greater good, right wrongs, champion justice.  It didn't work like that; he was such a small piece of a greater whole, one of the countless cogs in a machine that far exceeded him. He'd known it from the very beginning, hadn't he?

There were good days too, of course.  Days when they caught the bastards before they could hurt anyone else or—the best days—when they caught them before they had managed to hurt anyone at all.  The best days coaxed hope back into his chest, took him home with smiles and frozen yogurt for Janey, let him navigate the trembling waters of his marriage without an eruption.  The best days persuaded him that perhaps, perhaps, if he just worked a little harder, gave a little more, spread himself a little thinner, that he could help make a difference after all.  But the worst days...

Whatever little hope the good days shored up, the worst days dashed away with all the force of a tsunami.  The worst days sent him stumbling home with exhaustion and impotent anger spiking into a headache behind his eyes, at a loss to explain the evil at the core of humanity and desperate to fix something that could not be repaired.

Greg sighed, releasing his last breath of nicotine, and flicked the guttering stub of his cigarette carelessly towards traffic.  Littering.  Just one more box to tick on his list of sins today.  Normally he might be glad that none of his sergeants were around to witness his transgression, no one to take him to task about the example he was supposed to set, the morality of his position.  On a bad day he might wish he'd gone into accounting at Uni.  Today there was no appreciation for any small mercies, no cynical wishes in the back of his mind.  Even the smallest, most bitter wishes needed hope.

Today there was nothing inside of Gregory Lestrade's mind but the sour knowledge that four young girls were laying cold in a morgue, terrorized and hurt beyond imagination in their final moments of life, and the monster that put them in Lestrade's charge was walking free on a technicality.  Now countless other children were at risk.  If he'd had any wish in that moment, it would have been that they'd caught the son of a bitch, dead to rights, or that he'd been caught before he'd hurt anyone.  Maybe even that he'd never been born at all.  Greg sighed again, as the storm that had been threatening all morning began pissing down around him.

Wishing for justice was like wishing for a sunny day in London; it might happen, but it had nothing to do with you.  Normally he enjoyed the rain—assuming, of course, he was safely indoors—but today the icy droplets sliding down the back of his neck were just another indignity heaped on top of a brutal defeat, spurring him into hailing a taxi with a jerky wave.

The drive to his flat was interminable, knackered enough to attempt to doze on the way and too wound-up to achieve any true rest. Liv would scold him for the expense, when he could have driven himself, but the idea of navigating London traffic—on the last dregs of caffeine, desperation, and three days of stolen sleep at his desk—made him shudder. Besides, their budget wasn't quite as tight now that he'd made DI. When the car finally pulled to a stop in front of his building, he'd managed to pay his fee with a marginally polite grumble of thanks and dash inside.

The rain hadn't lessened and by the time he'd managed to unlock the door and get inside, he was soaked through.  Lestrade wondered if he should count himself lucky that he hadn't been struck by lightening on the front step, but then again that would mean his wife wouldn't be able to eviscerate him for the last three weeks spent primarily at the job and any other recent failings.  It was a toss-up to decide which would be more painful.  The flat was silent, however, as he closed the door behind him, a bit eerie in the stillness of midday, and Greg cast a guilty eye towards his watch. Half-one. 

Janey would be in school and Olivia at work, then.  The flat looked like a whirlwind had taken up residence with them, scattering Janey's toys and Livvy's work forms throughout, with a few of his own things tossed here and there for good measure.  Dropping his keys in the bowl by the door, Lestrade made his way into the kitchen, momentarily unconcerned with the trail of water he was leaving behind.  He needed a stiff drink and a hot cuppa was the closest he would be getting today.

The bright red package sitting innocently on the kitchen table threw him off his hunt for the kettle. "To Dad" was written in Janey's neatest lettering on the small card next to it.  Greg couldn't help but smile as he turned the card over to read its message.  Janey could always bring him out of the blackest of moods.  He'd fallen in love the first time he'd seen her in Liv's arms, crying unhappily as she'd been carried into the restaurant on their third date, a squirmy, grumpy toddler.

_The man at the shop said this was a lucky piece and Sherly Sleuth always needs a little luck with his cases, so I thought you might need some too.  Happy Birthday, Dad!_

Greg could feel his smile turn a bit wistful at the mention of "Sherly Sleuth: Boy Brainiac."  Janey had lost any real interest in the stories sometime last year, around the same time she'd discovered a shy interest in boys.  She'd be trading out her books of fancy and kid detectives for for Mills & Boon before long.  Evenings reading with her old dad would be sacraficed for afternoons at the shops and dates with dodgy little pricks he wouldn't trust as far as he could throw.  And there was nothing for it, no way to stop it; his little girl was growing up.

He slipped his thumb into the seam of the wrapping, carefully prying up the sellotape to reveal a rather plain gift box.  He could have used a little luck these past few weeks.  He hadn't even realized the date.  He'd known his birthday had been looming, of course, but the days had rather blown past him.  He'd been too busy combing through evidence from the very moment Moira Danner's body had been discovered.  Evidence that kept piling up when they'd found the next three girls, all terrifyingly close to Janey's age.

He'd been over and over all of it, for weeks, but the only thing that tied Ian Kelling to the crimes had been rendered inadmissable by the clot of a sergeant who had broken the chain of evidence.  There would be an inquiry, of course, but the damage was done.  He had four appointments tomorrow, to break the news to each of the girls' parents. Lestrade had no idea how he was going to look them in the eyes, much less tell them that the monster who had hurt their children was still free because of a cock-up.

His fingers flipped up the lid of the box and Greg considered the gift nestled carefully inside with no little amount of surprise.  He'd expected something along the lines of earlier gifts—a tie printed with miniature magnifying glasses, a biro with a funny little character clinging to it.  Gifts a child would give.  But this... The last remnants of childhood remained in the whimsy of it's fantastic design, perhaps, the gleam of silver twisted round and round in an almost severe spiral, but the lingering tarnish and slight wear about the edges told another story.  The fine detailing of the lion's head suggested antique, something Lestrade wouldn't have chosen for himself, and expense sparkled in the clear blue of the stone caught in the cat's mouth. 

Carefully, Greg tipped the box, dropping the little metal creature into his hand.  It wasn't something he might have chosen for himself, but he had to admit it was a fine piece, all the same.  It certainly had taken a more mature mindset than the admittedly odd Snoopy watch he'd been given at Christmas.  Not that he was ungrateful for any gift his daughter took the time to choose for him, but he certainly hadn't had the heart to ask her to explain her choice when he already had a perfectly functioning watch.  He'd mentioned needing a tie pin ages ago, after a particularly windy interlude with the press outside one murder scene or another.  He couldn't imagine how long Jane must have saved up, the consideration she'd put into choosing it. 

He'd known it was coming, but that didn't mean the sharp reminders didn't leave a lingering, unpleasant tightness in his chest.  His little girl was growing up.  One day, soon, she would leave and he wouldn't be able to protect her.  Not from the gormless twit destined to break her heart, not from the monsters like Ian Kelling, who preyed on innocent girls with wonder in their eyes.  The words bubbled up from his chest without his consent as he traced his fingers over the cool metal in his palm.

"I wish...." He sighed, letting the words dangle in the silence of the flat.  So many things.  Too many things.  And hopeless, all of them.

"Yes?"

The voice was unfamiliar, as soft as silk, and Lestrade's hand went to his hip as he spun around, automatic as breathing, but there was nothing there.  Liv had always been adamant that he check his job at the door—"What if Jane got hold of something and hurt herself, Greg?"—and he had never disagreed with her. _You always feel safe in your own home, until you're not_ ; the words flashed through his mind, echoed from some long forgotten seminar at Uni. 

The man standing on the threshold of his kitchen seemed to be as unarmed as Lestrade, but hard experience had taught him that 'unarmed' didn't mean 'not dangerous.'  There seemed to be no threat in his stance, either, only an odd air of boredom.  All the same, Greg scanned the room for potential weapons—both to use and to defend against.  Three nights on practically no sleep and grueling casework and now some posh nutter in a waistcoat had broken into his home.  He was all too aware that things could go very badly from here.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" The question erupted from him as his mind worked double time, considering the situation.  Surely there was some explanation for this man's presence in his home, calm as you please, like he belonged there.  If his empty hands were any indication, he certainly wasn't there to burgle the place.  His mind flickered through increasingly insane theories, ranging from Olivia listing the flat without mentioning it to him all the way up to the Doctor being real and having crash-landed in his garden.  For a wild instant Greg imagined the cool stranger breaking into a grin and shouting, "Finally ginger!"

For his part, the posh man seemed content to ignore his question and let the silence stretch between them. Lestrade took the momentary stand-off as an opportunity to to examine his unlikely housebreaker.  Not only was the man wearing a three-piece suit, which was unusual enough, but it was very obviously tailored to him, the cut of it hugging his trim frame.  If Greg had run into this man on the street, he might have guessed banker or barrister.  Some job that required smart clothes and the sharp creases in his trousers.  Burglar would have been nowhere on the list. 

He wouldn't even attempt to guess the cloth of the suit, though he had to admit it looked fine enough.  Likely, it had been carried away from Savile Row at a price that was more than his monthly salary. A suit like that lent a man a sense of confidence, although the line of the stranger's shoulders and the coolness of his gaze suggested that it wouldn't effect his confidence one whit if he didn't have a stitch on. 

The charcoal jacket and waistcoat complimented his rather pale complexion, instead of washing him out, while the dark blue tie seemed to give his eyes an oddly unnatural depth.  It was, Lestrade had to admit, quite an effect.  None of it, however, changed the fact that this nutter had broken into his house.

Licking his lips, Greg tried again, forcing as much calm into his voice as he could.  "Sorry, who are you?"

Again, the question garnered no response. Lestrade could feel his temper rising, hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears, and fought against it.  If he could keep calm there was a far better chance of both of them walking away from this.  "Why are you in my flat?"

This, at last, set the man into motion, his unsettling, silent regard morphing into an expression of mild surprise.  "You called me, Inspector."

The words were soft and even, almost unassuming, but they sent a chill racing down Lestrade's spine.  There was a certain amount of meet and greet, a certain amount of arse-kissing, that came with being CID.  Greg hadn't had the position long, though; his transfer had only gone through in February.  And he'd always had a memory for faces.  This man's face was not one he'd run across in his new position, it would be impossible to forget eyes that intense shade of blue and a stare that seemed to lay him bare.

It didn't mean much, of course, there was always some risk of press exposure even as a constable and he'd had more than his fair share, here and again. The ways to find out who he was were likely numerous and varied, but it was eerie, the way this man spoke his title. As if he was defining Lestrade in some way. His fists tightened, a sharp little poke reminding him of the pin clutched tight to his palm.

"Look, I don't know what you're playing at, but you can't just go round breaking into people's homes!"

"Can't I?" The words were accompanied by a smirk that seemed to suggest the stranger thought otherwise.

"Christ, it's illegal! Why are you in my bloody flat?!" Greg could practically feel that smirk shredding his already tenuous calm. "Give me one good reason not to dial emergency services."

He should have done it already. His mobile was in his pocket and the stranger had given him no sign of violence.

"As I said, Inspector. You summoned me." The man was clearly as mad as a sackful of cats and staying calm was getting Lestrade absolutely nowhere.

"I don't know what the fuck you're on about, mate, but I think I would remember ringing up a complete stranger and inviting him in for—for a..," Greg paused, thrown off his rant by the reminder that he still had no idea what was going on.

"One should hope," the stranger demurred, then raised his hands in a defensive gesture against Lestrade's snarled response. "The fact remains, however, that I am here at your leisure and I cannot leave until you finish it."

A headache was beginning to throb behind his eyes. They were speaking in circles and Greg was exhausted. All he'd wanted was a cuppa and a long nap, was that really too much to expect after the week—month—he'd had? Instead, he got to deal with a housebreaker who was clearly off his meds.

"Finish what, exactly?" The question was all he could muster up the energy for. He just wanted this bastard out of his flat, hopefully without having to drag the Met into it. He didn't particularly look forward to having to install new locks, he'd rather leave filing the paperwork for a complaint out of it all together.

"Your wish."

Lestrade stared at the stranger in mute disbelief. Christ, just when he'd thought things couldn't get any stranger. It took his tired mind another long moment to finish processing the statement.

"My—my _what_? Are you having me on? Did—did Rich put you up to this?" Greg frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. He thought stripper seemed just as unlikely a career for this man as burglar, but it took all sorts. Rich would think something like this was funny, the bastard. "That is crossing a line. Did he even tell you I'm married? _Happily_ married."

"No one hired me, though you may consider me in your employ. The phrasing has a bit more civility, I suppose, though the act itself remains the same." The stranger's tone was cool, but the edge of weariness to the words gave Lestrade pause.

"What you— You don't expect me to believe that you're some sort of, what? _Genie_?" He scoffed. "Did I fall into a Disney movie and someone forgot to tell me?"

"What a ridiculous notion. There is no such thing as a 'genie.' The Bedouin called their desert spirits _djinn_ and even you would have a difficult time likening me to one of their sort. No, I am a...," the other man's sudden lecture faltered, a slight moue of distaste tugging at his lips. "You might think of me as a helper."

Greg wanted to groan. They were back to the utterly mad circular conversation.

"Right, then, let me just rub your lamp and make my three wishes, shall I?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Didn't I just tell you I'm _not a genie_?" The condescension in the madman's tone was enough to make Lestrade's teeth ache. Trust him to attract the only complete nutter in London with a bigger superiority complex than God.

"No? But I've summoned you by magic and you're supposed to grant me a wish? Sounds like a genie to me." Greg shook his head sharply and used his free hand to dig his mobile from his trouser pocket. "This is insane. I'm ringing for help."

"If you'd like, Inspector, though there is a much simpler solution." The stranger's calm, even mask was back in place. Lestrade jabbed his finger into the 9 key of his phone.

"What's that, then?" His thumb hovered over 'send.'

"Make the wish." Pale hands spread themselves placatingly in front of the other man. "I'll leave. Either I'm as mad as you think I am or I'm not. There's no harm in it, is there? Make the wish and I'll leave."

Greg hesitated, considered. "Alright."

After all, if he made the wish and the nutter left, he'd escape the complaint forms and ribbing that he couldn't handle a mad posh man breaking into his flat. If he made the wish and the so-called 'not-genie' didn't leave, well. He could still dial 999. Lestrade straightened slightly and opened his mouth to deliver a flippant wish for a hot cuppa or, perhaps, a helping of the world's best shepherd's pie. Gooseflesh prickled on the nape of his neck. Wishing for tea or food, that would hardly put this one off. He'd probably come back round Might as well make a go of it.

"Alright," he repeated, nodding his head slightly. A thousand things he had wished for at one point or another during his lifetime came rushing back, battering through his thoughts. One in particular stood out, pounding at him with the urgency of the last month and four still faces, hidden away under sheets. He licked his lips.

"I wish...I wish I could close more cases, that I could put Ian Kelling and beasts of his ilk where they belong."

The words were heavy in the sudden stillness of his kitchen and, irrationally, Greg wanted to take them back as soon as they were spoken. The stranger's gaze seemed to glitter and focus on him sharply all at once, appraising.

"So it will be." And then he vanished.

Lestrade stared stupidly at the empty space where the man had been. He blinked once, then again, trying to make his eyes believe what his mind was telling him. It was silent, not even shrill birdsong from the garden drifting in to disturb the peace, and he had lost his bloody marbles. Staggering into motion, Greg walked slowly through the living area and down the hall, opening doors and checking each bedroom and wardrobe. He even went so far as to look beneath Jane's bed and behind the shower curtain. Nothing.  No one in the flat but him, and no indication that anyone else had ever invaded their home.

It was gone three before Lestrade gave up his shuffling search, sinking onto the sofa with a groan of discomfort. His head was throbbing. A house-breaking? A hallucination? Both? He didn't know anymore. An uncomfortable twinge in his palm reminded him that his hand was still clenched tightly around Janey's gift. He'd held tight to it, through the stranger's— _hallucination’s_ —visit and after as he'd prowled around, looking for any evidence that he wasn't losing his mind. Strange, that he'd just received it and was so reluctant already to let it go.

He unfolded his fingers from now warm metal and looked down at the pin once more. The stone in the lion's mouth glittered in the fading light, a deep, unrelenting blue. The exact same as shade as his visitor's eyes.

\---

"Daddy!"

Janey's happy shriek pulled him from the blackness of sleep with all the effectiveness of ice-water and Greg jerked upright on the couch just in time to catch the weight of his daughter's gangly frame in his chest.

"Oof!" He tried to suck in a breath and reorient himself with the waking world, groggy and unable to recall falling asleep.

"You made it home for your birthday! Mum said you might not, that you were very busy at work. Did you catch the sorry bastards?" Thin arms wrapped themselves around his neck and Lestrade returned the embrace reflexively, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Jane's enthusiasm was impossible to resist, even half-asleep and racing to keep up with the barrage of words.

"Jane Elizabeth! Language!" Olivia's reprimand drifted in from the entryway, the rattle of her keys hitting his in their bowl and the click of the door lock sliding home followed before she finally stepped into Greg's line of sight.

"Sorry, Mum." She didn't sound sorry in the slightest. It was Greg's fault, language he brought home from the pub after frustrating cases, and Liv was narrowing her gaze at him already. He dreaded to think what would happen to him the day Jane decided to repeat the words he brought with him after cases like this latest one.

"It's nice to see you still live here, Greg." His wife murmured coolly, surveying the two of them on the couch with a tightness about her mouth that was all too familiar.

As if sensing the looming argument, Jane's finger jabbed suddenly into his chest, pressing something hard into his sternum.

"You found it! Do you like it? I searched for _ages_ before I found this one.  The clerk said that it was a lucky one, but honestly it was in a big box full of them, so I don't know how he would know.  Isn't the lion fierce, though? I thought it would be perfect for you while you're out solving mysteries and..."

Jane's breathless chatter faded, the words losing any real meaning, and a frisson of disquiet curled in Lestrade's stomach as he caught sight of what had captured her attention: his tie, obediently tacked down by the silver pin she'd gifted him.  The lion and it's stone seemed innocent now, quiescent in the fading light of dusk, but he could not for the life of him recall putting it on.  Nor could he recall falling asleep, but he certainly had been.  Perhaps it had all been some deeply bizarre dream. The alternative didn't really bear thinking about.

After a moment, he realized that his daughter's cheerful voice had gone silent and Greg looked back up to see her watching him nervously, lip caught in her teeth.

"Do you hate it, then?" Her voice wavered slightly, and he silently cursed his inattention and pulled her into a tight hug.

"It's brilliant, Sprout!" Lestrade blew out a loud, playful breath into her fringe and Jane giggled as she was meant to before pulling back.

"Really?" She asked, regarding him seriously.

"Really, really," he assured her.  "I was just surprised that you remembered! It's been weeks since I said something about it."

"Well _of course_ I remembered! I love you, don't I?" She said archly, mimicking Olivia's "I'm-superior" tone, though whether she was doing it purposefully or not he didn't know.

"Do you? Lucky me!" Greg grinned and reached up, lightly tweaking her nose. "Too bad you're growing up so fast--it won't be long before you're too old for your dad."

"Never!" Janey's arms were around his neck again, hugging him tightly.  "Besides, you're the one who's old now! Nearly _forty_!"

"Hey now!" He couldn't see it with her face pressed into his shoulder, but he could imagine the the sly grin curving her lips.  Not growing up too fast indeed.  "Cracks like that will cost you your share of the birthday cake!  I'm only 36!"

"Jane, you still have your studies to attend to.  Your father and I need to talk." Liv's voice broke into their levity with just the slightest edge of impatience and Lestrade tried to hide his wince.  It didn't sound like she wanted to discuss birthday plans.

"But _Mum_ ," Jane whined, apparently sharing Greg's apprehensions about the forthcoming "talk."  For a twelve year old, she was surprisingly dedicated to her schoolwork and rarely protested having to finish it.

"Go on, Janey.  Do as your mum says." He had no intention of using her as a shield, if Liv intended to give him a good tongue lashing.  His parents had done him the favor a time or two and he had no intentions of sharing the experience with his daughter.  He saw Olivia's shoulders relax, just a fraction, as Jane obediently slipped off the couch and sulked her way into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

A moment ticked by, then two, as Liv seemed gather herself together.  Lestrade could almost see her preparing herself for battle.  Absently, he wondered when it had come to that, when they had forgotten to compromise, instead resorting to pushing and pulling to win their own way.  He wondered how much of the shadow beneath his wife's eyes was his doing.

"You couldn't have tidied a bit when you got home?" Liv rushed out in a breath, a slight furrow in her brow.  He couldn't decide what put it there: her confusion at his actions or the words themselves.  He doubted that she'd meant to start out the argument that way, not when he hadn't been home in days.  Still, for a brief moment, the question did its trick, annoyance bristling in his every fiber.  Because he _hadn't_ been home in days and what had she been doing that the flat looked like it did and why the hell should he have to clean it?

But the exhaustion in her voice slowly registered and Greg considered the fairness of that, because Olivia worked and took care of Jane while he was off slogging away in the field.  Not to mention whatever worry she spared for his well-being while he was gone.  Perhaps it wasn't the same as sixteen hour days chasing the scum of London down dirty back alleyways, but didn't she have just as much on her plate as he did? Licking his lips, he considered his words carefully.

"It's been a long week, Livvy." He could practically see the thunder gathering in her expression and he shook his head, trying to forestall it.  "It's not an excuse, really, just--," he sighed and closed his eyes, reaching up to rub his forehead. "It's been a long week and could we not, tonight?"

Silence settled around them for a moment and Lestrade opened his eyes again, hesitantly meeting her uncertain gaze with his own.  A slight, ungainly smile twitched at his lips.  "It's my birthday, and only, I thought I could spend it with my lovely wife and daughter after a shit couple days."

An answering smile twitched at Liv's mouth after a moment and Greg felt something loosen in his chest.  He reached out his arms to her and she moved forward slowly, settling down next to him and allowing his arm to settle around her shoulders.

"I did miss you, Greg."

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head.  "I know, love.  I'm sorry."

She tilted her head back after a moment, arching a curious brow at him. " _Did_ you catch the sorry bastards?"

The cheek of the question startled a laugh from him, though it was short lived.  

"No." The word seemed to hang between them, weighed down with his exhaustion.

Her expression softened and a cool palm slid into his, their fingers tangling together without thought.  

"I'm sorry, love."

He gave a  soft hum of acknowledgment.  Questions passed unspoken between them, the beginning of every old argument, and several new ones to come, because they started this way so often. They both held them back.  There was no, “Why are you doing this to yourself?” No, “Why can’t you understand?” They let the minutes pass between them in silence, soaking in each other's warmth and listening to the rustle of their daughter in the next room.

Olivia giggled suddenly, breaking the standstill and pressing her cheek to his shoulder.  Lestrade glanced down at her, puzzled.

"What?"

"Thirty-seven." The next giggle shook his wife's slight frame.

"What?" If anything, her answer confused him more.

"Thirty-seven.  You told Jane thirty-six, but as of today, it's thirty-seven."

Greg blinked and dropped his head onto the back of the sofa as he did the mental addition.

"Good lord.  I _am_ old," he groaned

She shifted against him, the warmth of her curves pressing into his side, and dropped a light kiss to his cheek.

"You're perfect." He slid an arm around her waist, tugging her just a bit closer, and felt the hitch of her chest against him before she spoke again.

"Of course, I don't see as much of you as I'd like..." Her breath caressed his cheek as she spoke, and for once he didn't hear the resentment in her tone, only the sadness.

"It'll get better, Livvy," he murmured softly, turning his head to press their lips together.  It has to get better, he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> from  
> The Homeric Hymn to Ares:
> 
> Hear me,  
> helper of mankind,  
> dispenser of youth's sweet courage,  
> beam down from up there  
> your gentle light  
> on our lives,  
> and your martial power,  
> so that I can shake off  
> cruel cowardice  
> from my head,  
> and diminish that deceptive rush  
> of my spirit, and restrain  
> that shrill voice in my heart  
> that provokes me  
> to enter the chilling din of battle.  
> You, happy god,  
> give me courage,  
> let me linger  
> in the safe laws of peace,  
> and thus escape  
> from battles with enemies  
> and the fate of a violent death.  
>  _\--translated by Charles Boer_


End file.
